Of Broken Hearts and Good Intentions
by moffat'sminion012211
Summary: Sherlock Holmes makes a promise to Molly Hooper. But when he doesn't keep it, she realises that he never really will change and gives up on her love for him. Can he possibly make it up to her? Inspired by Taylor Swift's The Moment I Knew.


_Christmas lights glisten,_

_I got my eye on the door just waiting for you to walk in._

_But the time is ticking._

_People ask me how I've been as I comb back through my memory._

_How you said you'd be here._

When Sherlock Holmes asked me to the St. Bart's Hospital Christmas party, I literally laughed in his face. Not because I didn't want to go with him, I wanted that more than anything in the world. It was because I didn't believe he really meant it. The great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes escort me, little mousy Molly Hooper, to a Christmas party? How absurd.

And yet, here I stand in my simple red satin dress and black heels, watching the entryway nervously, awaiting my partner's grand entrance. He's late, as I expected. I glance at the clock nearly every ten seconds it seems, but every time I look another minute has passed. I jump slightly every time the double doors swing open, and my heart sinks even further into my stomach each time I realise it's not him.

Several people stop to talk to me about work, my latest paper, the usual. I must seem distant because they all end the conversation quickly and walk away. I don't care. I'm too busy threading through the crystal clear memories floating around in my brain, recalling the exact moment Sherlock asked me to the party. Molly Hooper, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the twenty-second annual Christmas party at Saint Bart's? His rumbling baritone echoes in my head and it makes me smile. I finger the ends of my curled auburn hair, the grin slowly bending to a frown as I glance at the clock once more. It has been almost a whole hour since the party began. Then it hits me. I should have known.

_It was like slow motion,_

_Standing there in my party dress, in red lipstick_

_With no one to impress._

_And they're all laughing as I'm looking around the room._

_But there's one thing missing._

_And that was the moment I knew._

I close my eyes, trying to prevent the hot tears stinging them from spilling over and ruining my makeup. I should have known that Sherlock Holmes didn't really want to go to a stupid Christmas party with me. I should have known that all we wanted was free access to the morgue without me scurrying about at his heels. I'll bet anything he's down there right now, peering into his stupid microscope, studying some stupid enzyme to solve some stupid case. On Christmas Eve.

I unclench my teeth, uncurl my fists, but the lump in my throat won't go away. I lick my red-painted lips, remembering that it was his favorite shade on me and he wasn't here to appreciate it. I look around slowly, observing everyone practically glowing with the cheer of the season, the women laughing carefreely on the arms of handsome men in suits. The tears threaten to show again so I look away and quietly walk over to the refreshments. A bottle of pinot noir is sitting in the ice bucket, and I let my hands reach for it, even though I don't usually drink. I pour myself a glass and sit at a small round table nearby, taking a sip and playing with the ends of the tablecloth.

_The hours pass by,_

_Now I just wanna be alone, but your close friends always seem to know_

_When there's something really wrong, so they follow me down the hall._

_And there in the bathroom,_

_I try not to fall apart,_

_And the sinking feeling starts,_

_As I say hopelessly, "He said he'd be here."_

I stare, repulsed, at the glass of wine in my hand. I don't even know how many I've had, but the tremor in my hand and the pounding in my head tell me it's too many. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself, knowing I can't explode here, not surrounded by coworkers and bosses. My shaking hands reach for my handbag and extract the mobile inside, unlocking it and finding the name 'Mary Morstan'.

Help please. Bart's

Christmas party.

-Molly xx

I know it's cryptic and I know it'll scare her to death, but I can't concentrate enough to type any more out. Mary Morstan works in the morgue with me, has done for almost a year now. I introduced her to John a few months back and they hit it off immediately. I can't help but be jealous of how easily she found love, looking at all my failed attempts, but I also can't help being immensely happy for her either. They're perfect for each other. I just wish the same would prove true for Sherlock and me.

Very soon, I see Mary walking toward me, looking frightened. She bends down to my level and I can tell she's reviewing my pale complexion, bloodshot eyes and tearstained face. I stand up, a bit wobbly at first but I regain my balance and keep walking towards the door. Mary follows, I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my neck, asking what's wrong, what happened.

I stop and push the bathroom doors open, it's a one-person but Mary comes in anyway. My knees hit the tiled floor and cover my face, trying not to fall apart. She kneels next to me, rubbing my back and peeling my hands away from my eyes so she can look at me.

She knows. I know she knows, just by one look. But I say it anyway, because I need to.

"He said he'd be here." It comes out as more of a sob, and I feel my throat closing up as I finally surrender to the tears, sobs racking my body.

_What do you say when tears are streaming down your face_

_In front of everyone you know?_

_And what do you do when the one who means the most to you_

_Is the one who didn't show…_

I don't know how many minutes, hours have passed before I calm myself down. I sit back against the cold wall, hugging myself. Mary doesn't talk, wetting a paper towel and handing it to me so I can clean up what's left of my makeup. I stand unsteadily and she loops her arm through mine, more for moral support than helping me to walk. I continue to cry silently, but I walk through the door anyway, knowing the only way out was through the social hall where everyone was still celebrating. I don't care. No one notices me usually, why should they now? We keep to the wall like a static balloon, inching past everyone and keeping our heads down. Thoughts of what Sherlock and I could have been doing at this moment keep running through my mind but I try my best to ignore them because it'll only make me cry harder.

_You should've been here. _  
_And I would've been so happy._

As soon as the cool night air hits my face I feel calmer, breathing deeply and relaxing my shoulders. Mary offers to drive me home and I nod silently, grateful beyond words for the sacrifice she was making. I know she and John were probably in the middle of their own Christmas Eve celebration when I texted, and yet she came anyway, almost instantaneously.

When we get to my flat, Mary walks me up. She insists on staying with me through the night but I won't let her, telling her to give John a big kiss for me and practically pushing her out the door. I take a deep breath when she's gone, thinking maybe I can get through this after all. I kick off my shoes at the door, letting my squished toes stretch out in the carpet beneath my feet. I pad into the kitchen to put the kettle on when a little scrap of white paper on the table catches my eye.

Dearest Molly,

Please call when you return.

SH

My breath hitches in my throat and I clench my teeth painfully. Swiping the paper off the table, I rip it into shreds and and scream until my throat gives out. I drop to my hands and knees, heart pounding in my chest. How could he do that? How could he do that to me? Dearest Molly? Clearly not.

I sit back on my heels and gather my unruly hair into its usual ponytail, realising how childish I was being. I get to my feet and shake my head, trying to clear it. I take a deep breath.

_You called me later and said "I'm sorry I didn't make it."_  
_And I said "I'm sorry, too."_

Just as I reach for the kettle, a knock sounds at the door. I jump at the sound but decide to ignore it, filling the kettle with water from the tap. The knocker persists though, and it gets annoying quickly. I try to make myself presentable, knowing it was pretty much useless at this point, and open the door. A tall, dark-haired man with razor sharp cheekbones stands there, looking properly startled at the sight of me.

I slap him.

It stings my hand a little, but it feels good. I do it again. I push him back with all my might but he barely moves. I begin to cry as I pound my fists into his chest but all he does is encompass me in his strong arms and as my face is pressed into his shoulder I take in the fireplace-coffee-mint smell that is Sherlock Holmes. I can feel his lips against my hair, whispering something I have never heard uttered from his mouth before, save once.

"Forgive me. Forgive me, Molly Hooper."

He rocks me back and forth, repeating those words over and over and over until I calm down. When I withdraw, he has a heartbroken look on his face, which is strange to behold. Sentiment is a sin to Sherlock Holmes; surely I couldn't have caused such a thing? He cups my face in his hands.

"Moriarty planned to kill you tonight, Molly," he admitted in a hoarse whisper. "It was his last attempt at trying to win the game. That's why I needed you at the party… that's why I couldn't be there with you."

I stare at him for a long while, the lump residing in my throat and tears still spilling down my face. His crystal blue eyes look longingly into mine and I watch as he leans in to kiss me, his cold lips meeting my hot ones in a strange but beautiful union.

_And that was the moment I knew._


End file.
